Class of '88 in the House!

Two tank tops (1 with sequins), two wraps, a very chic jacket = $150 on sale
Choosing instead an old glam rock blazer and tried and true jeans = $0
Cash for babysitter = $70
Minutes off life spent with flatiron = 35
Swear words muttered while searching for missing high heel shoe = 8
Miscellaneous junk removed to find shoe in daughter's closet = 12
Two delicious lite beers in back seat of an SUV on the way to the big city = $3
Gas wasted while making way through throngs of Red Sox fans = 1/8 gallon
Text messages sent to husband to make sure he got there in time = 6

Walking into 20th HS reunion to find only FOUR other people =

(say it with me now)

PRICELESS!

(That being said, they were four very well-adjusted, interesting people and I was happy to see them.)

Ladybug, Ladybug, Fly Away Home

I decided to make wise use of the 45 minutes I had after dropping the girls at jump rope. I needed to (re)visit the grocery store to get the 5 (or 12) things I'd forgotten to get during the morning run. Eight of those things necessary for dinner tonight and lunch tomorrow. Poor Giant Four Year Old: he's all, "peanut butter? aisle three. duh."

I returned 43.5 minutes later to find the inhabitants of the building hovering outside the main doors. With fire trucks. Three of them. And a police car. And here's where my brain went from the benign (pulled alarm) to the insane: my child has tripped over the rope, spun to the hard floor in some sick twisted hurl toward hurt, cracked open her skull and it's so incredibly serious and BAD, that they have EVACUATED the whole. entire. building and sent not one, not two, but three crack teams of paramedics in to put the Humpty Dumptress back together again.

"Run!" I said to the Giant Four Year Old.

"Why?" he said.

"I don't know!" I said, "But for the luvvaGod, let's go!"

It's only about 25 feet from the spot I slammed my car into to where my kids were waiting, so the drama was short lived. And the panic-induced sweat on my brow (note to self: more exercise needed) was humiliating at best. Even the Giant Four Year Old was embarressed for me.

"Fire drill," shrugged B.

"And I didn't even get my turn," moaned R.

Who had the good idea for that ladybug rhyme anyway? "Your house in on fire and your children are gone"? Seriously man, that shit is evil. I'm thinking there was once another line, lost to history now, that went "just kidding, crazy lady; it's just a frickin' false alarm."